


Ascent

by Spineless



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Exhaustion, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spineless/pseuds/Spineless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a brutal case and having barely eaten or slept in three days, it's no wonder Morse is bested by a flight of stairs. Needless to say, Thursday isn't happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The stairs before him present a Sisyphean task. 

Morse wonders why people have to reside at the base of such mountainous hills, why sea level just isn't good enough for some. He thinks about how bad the flooding must get in the spring and autumn seasons and hopes that the house's foundations are solid, and that the family has good flood insurance. 

He sighs inwardly. To say that the last three days have been rough would be a gross understatement. They weren't rough; they were jagged and barbed, all sharp corners and ragged edges. 

The previous seventy-two hours had been spent chasing a murderer across the city, trying to stop him before he had a chance to carve up anymore bodies. The work had been practically nonstop, with barely time for sleeping or eating. Morse figures he had been at his flat for a total of six hours during the duration of the investigation, just time to bathe and change clothes. At least, in the end, they had been partially successful; the bastard had been caught before he could tear a fourth girl to ribbons, but not before he could maim a third. 

Morse swallows thickly around the knot in his throat. Hence the visit to the valley house, to alert the couple that the man who had killed their daughter has been apprehended. And thus, the stairs. 

"Alright then, Morse." 

Thursday's voice startles him out of his reverie. Morse blinks slowly and gives a brief nod. His boss is looking more gaunt than usual, but Morse can't exactly make judgements on appearances, what with the shadows under his eyes and his generally rumpled demeanor. He wants to go home, have a drink, play his records, and sleep. He reckons he should throw "eat" in there somewhere, since he can't actually remember the last time he has done so, but––God. All he wants to do is sleep. 

But first: stairs. May as well ask him to scale Kilimanjaro at this point. Not exactly anything to do about it then, is there? Car's up there. They're down here. Only one way up. Stairs. 

He can do this, right? Yeah. Of course he can. 

Morse starts after Thursday, places his hand on the banister, and pauses. He isn't actually entirely sure he _can_ do this. His legs feel heavy and gelatinous at the same time, like he's lacking bones in his concrete limbs. His head pounds and his hands are shaking, ever so slightly. He wipes sweat from the back of his neck. 

 _It's just stairs, you idiot_ , he thinks to himself.

"Morse?" Thursday's got a head start on him by a few steps. He turns back to his bagman, eyebrow arched in an unspoken question. 

Morse clears his throat. "Yes. Ah. Coming, sir." 

Thursday resumes his climb and Morse begins his own, gaze fixed on the ground under his feet. One step. Then another. _See? Not too hard_. He clenches his jaw. 

Once he makes it past the halfway point, he's determined. He can't stop now, can't rest or hesitate or ask for a _break,_ because that would be utterly ridiculous. He pushes on, despite the droning in his ears, the gray at the edge of his vision. He's sure it'll pass. He's sure it'll pass.

Three-quarters of the way up. Nearly there. His breath is coming out short but he's not quite wheezing or panting, which he figures must be a good sign. Eight steps left. Seven. Six. Five. Thursday arrives at the top and heads off towards the car.

Morse reaches the peak. He can see the car parked and Thursday's back and his hand hasn't yet left the railing, and he stops. His head feels detached from his body, floating upwards towards the sky while the rest of him is being drawn towards the earth. He knows he should press on, knows that he's nearly made it, but. He. Can't. 

His gaze is narrowing to a point in the far off distance and he knows he should say something, should call out, but the words get caught in his half open mouth. He sees Thursday turn around, watches his brow furrow and his lips form a single word, but no sound reaches his ears. His vision clouds over: first gray, then black. 

* * *

He opens his eyes, not exactly surprised to see the blue of the clear sky directly above and Thursday kneeling over him, his lined face pinched with worry and thinly veiled anger while he stares intently at his watch. Morse realizes that there's a hand pressed against his wrist, taking his pulse. His fingers twitch.

Thursday looks up, silent fury settling into his expression. 

"For all your blasted brilliance, you can be a real idiot sometimes, Morse." 

Morse swallows and licks his lips. "Thought I'd be okay," he says, voice quiet, but Thursday just shakes his head. 

"You could have fallen back down the stairs and cracked your head open." There's a slight tremble to his voice, but Morse can't tell if it's from anger or something else. "Head bashed in, and god knows what else." He releases Morse's wrist. 

"I know firsthand how easy it can be to lose yourself in a difficult case," he continues. "But that doesn't mean you can let yourself fall into disrepair."

"Sir––"

"Tell me, Morse, when did you last eat today?"

Morse is silent on the ground. 

"Alright, then. Yesterday?"

Again, nothing. Thursday pinches the bridge of his nose. "You don't reckon to remember the last time you got any damned _sleep_ , do you?" 

"I had a kip at my desk last night," Morse answers absently. "Or… maybe this morning."

Thursday stares at him incredulously. Morse turns his head away. 

"You need to take better damned care of yourself, Morse, I mean it." His voice is icy.

"But the case––"

"You do know you can't work on a case if you're passed out, or ill, or worse, don't you? _Don't you?_ "

Morse swallows. He didn't mean for it to get this bad. He didn't mean to go so long with out eating, without sleep, but this case… it _consumed_ him. How could he stop to eat, to sleep, when there was a murderer on the loose, a murderer he _knew_ he could stop? What's a few hours of sleep in order to save a life?

But Thursday is right, and he knows it, even if he doesn't want to admit it. He took it too far this time. 

"Yes, sir."

A sigh. Thursday mumbles something under his breath, something Morse doesn't catch, then says, "D'you think you're alright to try sitting?" 

Morse nods. He pushes himself up slowly, Thursday taking his shoulder, and soon he's sitting cross-legged and upright on the ground. A wave of dizziness hits, and he spends several long seconds taking deep, heavy breaths. Once it passes, he turns to Thursday. "I think I'm alright to try walking."

Thursday arches a brow. "Not too fast now."

Morse tries to convey a look of earnestness in his expression, not sure that it'll actually be effective. But with another lingering look, Thursday rises, offering a hand for him to take. Morse's own ascent is much slower, more measured and deliberate. Once fully standing, the lightheadedness is much more pronounced, and a few spots of gray cloud his vision. He swallows, not wanting to pass out again, but his breath hitches. Immediately, Thursday's hand is on his elbow. 

"Morse? Morse?" 

"I'm alright." His voice is taut. After another several deep breaths, he nods. "I'm alright." 

The pair make their way agonizingly slowly over to the car, Morse's arm never leaving Thursday's grasp. He wavers a few times during the short stroll, breaks out in a sweat, but they complete their journey unhindered. Morse falls into the passenger seat, feeling exhaustion press on him from all sides. 

Thursday slides into the drivers' seat and starts the engine. "I should make you go to hospital, for all the trouble you've caused me."

Morse's eyes widen. "Sir, I'm f––"

"I hope for your sake that wasn't going to end with _fine_." He backs out of the lot and heads for the road into town. "You've barely slept, haven't eaten, are probably dehydrated. You're a bit of a mess, Morse, if I'm being honest." His frown deepens in thought for a moment. "I'll take you back home with me, then. You can kip in the den and stay for tea. Win'll enjoy the company." 

"Sir, with all due respect, I can recuperate just fine back at my own flat." 

"You can't handle stairs, Morse." That shuts him up quick enough. 


	2. Chapter 2

Morse awakens, not knowing he fell asleep. He did not dream. There is a hand on his upper arm and, with a flinch, his eyes are open. He stares, blinking owlishly at Thursday, to whom the hand belongs. They're sitting, halted, in the car, the engine turned off. 

“Up you get,” Thursday says, a note of roughness still staining his tone. “We’re here.” 

Morse looks out the window and sees the front facade of the Thursday’s home. He turns back to reiterate his fineness, but Thursday has already started out the car. Morse has a go at the handle on the door, but his grip is weaker, weaker than he expected, his coordination poorer. Before he can make another attempt, the door is pulled away, replaced by Thursday’s offering arm. Morse is pulled unsteadily to his feet. His head pounds, his stomach churns, and everything from the cooing of doves pecking at the kerb to the hand at his elbow feels far away yet stiflingly close all at once. It’s the first time he entertains the idea that he may not, in fact, be _fine_ at all. 

“Morse?”

He should answer, but he’s not sure what will happen if he opens his mouth. Instead, he takes several deep breaths and waits for the world to even itself out slightly. After a moment of heavy breathing and concerned stares, he nods. Morse allows himself to be led through the front door, down the hall, and right up to the threshold of the sitting room, without a word of complaint. Thursday hesitates. “You should eat something before you kip,” he says in a hard tone, but the mere concept of food is enough to start whirlpools in his gut and he’s just so damn _tired_ , all he wants to do is sleep. He could sleep for days. 

“Please, sir,” he says, tongue sticking to his teeth and palate. There’s more he wants to say, he’s sure of it, but his seemingly intrinsic eloquence is failing him. He can’t get words to form in either brain or mouth. He swallows thickly. He just wants to sleep.

Thursday looks at him with––not pity, because the man would never pity him, never belittle him like that––but with aching concern. With empathy. The man nods once and, hand still on his arm, guides him into the room. “Sit,” he says, and Morse does, sinking gratefully into the cushions, leaning his head back. “I’ll wake you in a few hours. You need to eat,” Thursday says, but Morse is being dragged down under. 

* * *

He’s dead to the world for hours until voices in the hall rouse him from the vice-like grip of sleep. He has shifted from the mostly upright position he fell asleep in to being somewhat horizontal, one leg curled under, his head resting against the arm of the sofa. It’s not comfortable, and he can tell right away that a definite crick is forming in his neck. He squints in the dimness of the room and tries to focus on the muffled voices, to little avail. He thinks he hears his name mentioned, and moves his legs out to rest on the carpeted floor, maneuvering his stiff body. He pushes off the sofa and stands. 

Dizziness is overt right away, but he’s sure it’ll pass. He takes a few steps towards the door, and realizes something is wrong. 

There’s a droning in his ears, constant, volume increasing with each step. It sounds like an encroaching swarm of bees and the half-lit sitting room swims before him and his head absolutely _pulses_. He feels the world tilt beneath him and he throws out an arm as his legs give way and the floor rushes up to meet him. 

* * *

This time, consciousness is slow to come. It’s like he’s being embraced by a warm fog, thick like wool and just as suffocating. He would lay asleep for longer, only someone is calling his name, and it’s becoming rather incessant. 

He prizes his eyes open to see, for the third time that day, the sight of Thursday looming above him. 

“Sir,” he says, voice tinny and hoarse. 

Thursday sighs heavily. “I don’t need this fright, Morse,” he says, sounding highly exasperated.

“To be fair, I didn’t know I would pass out again.” His voice his quiet. 

“I should have made you eat something first,” Thursday sniffs. “Food’s as important than sleep, more so even. Gives you energy, life. Probably would have prevented _this_ —“ He gestures to Morse’s form on the carpet, “––from happening _._ That bit’s my fault, I suppose.” 

“Sir, I––“

“Can it, Morse. I don’t want to hear another word out of you.” With surprising ease, Thursday maneuvers Morse off the floor, depositing him unceremoniously onto the sofa again, keeping him upright. Morse’s world spins briefly before settling down. A moment later, a hot mug is being pressed into his trembling grasp. He gives it a cautious whiff, revealing that it’s broth. He shoots Thursday an inquiring look. 

The Inspector nods toward the cup. “Start off with that, then, see how well you do with it. I phoned Debryn while you were sleeping. He thought you might be weak when you woke up.” His lips tighten.

Morse takes a sip. “How long was I out?” 

“About five hours.”

Good lord, he thinks. That makes it getting on six already. The next sip he takes is more like a large gulp. The heat of the soup singes his throat and it goes down the wrong way, making him cough and sputter. The mug is taken from his grasp while he coughs, and he has to focus on keeping the world wrapped around him. Passing out three times in front of his boss would be sheer irresponsibility on both their parts. The droning dances at the edge of his awareness.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” Thursday is saying, a hand rubbing hard circles into his upper back. “That’s it, you’re alright.”

After the coughing passes, Morse takes deep breaths, and the world sharpens back into focus. He stifles a groan, and finds himself holding the mug again. He takes a smaller sip. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long,” he says, finally, though the truth is he could probably sleep for three times that length right now. 

“You’re right,” Thursday agrees. “I should have made you eat something first thing. Sleeping for so long on such an empty stomach was no good for you, your blood sugar must’ve been through the basement.”

“No use in me falling asleep in my soup.”

“No use in you passing out the second you stand up.”

Morse inclines his head. “I don’t need a second lecture,” he says, rather petulantly. Anger grows on Thursday’s face and in his voice. 

“You might not need it, but you should damn well have it anyway, just to drive my point home. You have to take care of yourself, Morse, you _must_. Good men have lost themselves to far less. I won’t have you emaciating yourself.”

“It wasn’t like I did it on purpose.”  

“Accidental is worse, because you don’t even realize you’re doing it, and by the time you do it might be too late. You might have fallen asleep behind the wheel, crashed your car into a tree. You might’ve passed out while climbing stairs, dashed your head against the pavement––“

“Fred Thursday, that’s quite enough of that.” 

Thursday’s address, to Morse’s relief, is interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Win Thursday carrying a serving tray in her hands. “The lad’s been through quite enough today as it is, he doesn’t need you giving him any more of a fright.” 

The smile she gives Morse as she places the tray on the side table is warm and real and makes something inside him ache for his own mother. “Hullo, Mrs. Thursday,” he greets sheepishly. 

“It’s Win, dear,” she corrects. “I’ve brought you a bit of tea, in case you weren’t well enough to join us at the table. Which is quite alright,” she says, shooting her husband a look. “but I do hope you’re feeling better, love.”

“Much, thanks,” he says, raising the half-empty mug. “Just, er, a bit worn, is all.”

Mrs. Thursday nods. “Yes, dear, I’m sure.” She turns to her husband. “Have you finished scaring him yet?”

“Perhaps. Not quite.” 

“Just remember, it’s not as if you didn’t do foolish things in your youth as well.”

Thursday bites back a sigh. “Of course not, pet.”

Win Thursday shakes her head and exits the sitting room. Morse continues to sip his broth, still unsure of the current state of his stomach. The tray holds a bowl of thick, hearty stew, a piece of shepherd’s pie, and two slices of homemade bread. It looks wonderful, it really does, and Morse doesn’t fancy vomiting it all back up. 

Thursday catches him staring at the food. “You need to eat something.”

“Dunno if I can.”

“It’s not up for debate.” 

“I’m saying it truthfully, not to be difficult.” He leans his head against the back of the sofa, thoroughly exhausted by this whole ordeal. “I don’t know if I’d be able to keep it down.” He doesn’t look at Thursday when he says it, so he doesn’t see Thursday’s expression soften. 

They sit in silence for long moments, Morse drinking the soup while the smells of the rich dinner permeate the air. Finally, Thursday speaks. “Cases like these, like the one we just closed… they illuminate the darkest refuse of humanity. They show us what men are truly capable of doing, they show us the true evils in the world. But they also show us that goodness triumphs, no matter what, every time.” Thursday lays his hand on Morse’s shoulder, grounding him in the now and keeping him there. “Because of men like us. Because of men like _you_ , Morse. Because of what you do.” 

Morse regards the heavy mug held loosely in his grasp, its chipped ceramic rim, and swallows the last sip of broth. “Thank you, sir,” he says, voice quiet and a thousand miles away. He places the empty mug on the tray beside the food he will not touch. 

Thursday watches him, observes the glazed look in his eyes and the slump to his shoulders and rattling in his frame. “You can stay if you like. Til you’re feeling less poorly, that is. Win likes the company, and having someone else to feed. She doesn’t want you getting ill, I reckon. She thinks you’re too thin as it is.” 

He wants Morse to turn to him and offer a wry smile, say something short and self deprecating but ultimately endearing, to nod and agree and thank him and pick up the fork and eat the pie, he wants him to sop up the dregs of the stew with the bread, bread that Win had baked only a few hours ago while he slept, he wants him to promise that he’ll look after himself, that he won’t let a case get the better of him like this one did, that he’ll be more careful in the future, sir, thank you. 

But he knows that won’t happen. 

Morse is staring at his own slender hands, and when he looks up at Thursday, the mask has dropped itself neatly into place. _Damn him_ , Thursday thinks. “Thank you, sir,” Morse repeats, “but I really am feeling much better. It was the soup, I think, and the sleep. They helped a lot.”

He’s so young, a fact made more evident by the heavy shadows under his eyes and his sleep-rumpled hair. Thursday wants to make him stay, wants to ask what’s _really_ wrong, wants to ask who it was he couldn’t save. 

But he doesn’t. 

He says, “Want me to run you back to your flat, then?” and the relief on Morse’s expression, relief that Thursday isn’t fighting him, isn’t making him stay, is palpable. 

“Yes, please, sir, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“No, Morse,” he says, residing them both to their fates. “It’s no trouble at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whaaat is thisssss it's five am lmao and i literally wrote a second part to this fic one year after writing it.... that's absurd... and also Wow this chapter went in a totally different direction than I intended?? whoops, that's okay though
> 
> ANYWAY, I miss this show A LOT but i've heard that it's coming back next month so that's really exciting!!
> 
> also if i could get feedback on this piece that would be really great thank you!! i know it's probably a hot mess because it's 5 am but... you know....
> 
> thanks for reading and also leaving comments 6 months ago for me to write another chapter, u The Best

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece back in December & i'm not entirely sure why I haven't posted it yet. ah, well. enjoy! feedback is always appreciated.


End file.
